


Felicity

by bluebells



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, Humour, Lucifer's Cage, M/M, Midam Week 2013, Playgrounds, Shared Birthdays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-27 23:47:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/985083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebells/pseuds/bluebells
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The leader of Heaven's armies is fixing the chain of a swing when Adam rounds the slide in the playground.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Felicity

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Midam Week 2013 on tumblr](http://midamweek.tumblr.com) under the prompt 'purity'.
> 
>  **fe·lic·i·ty**  
>  /fəˈlisitē/
> 
>  _Noun_  
>  Intense happiness.  
> The ability to find appropriate expression for one's thoughts.
> 
>  _Synonyms_  
>  happiness - bliss - luck - blessedness - fortune - joy

The leader of Heaven's armies is fixing the chain of the swing when Adam rounds the slide in the playground.

Michael stops, hands frozen in their work. He glances between the swing and the surprise that must show in Adam's face. He pulls his hands back to his sides, shoulders stiff.

"Hi," Michael says, so careful, like he doesn't trust the strength of his voice or the weight of its fall.

Adam wavers in confusion. "Hi? After everything, after... I don't even know how much time's passed; stop, before you think of lying to me. You dumped me in a sandbox - _I'll be right back, just checking the perimeter_ \- you just left me there for what was probably years. And - _hi_? That's all you're going to say to me?"

Years ago, that would have made Adam so angry. Weren't angels the embodiment of God's will? God, who had the plan, the fine print and the cast list; who had every means to be confident because he drew the bottom line.

At Michael's first introduction, he was patronising and unapologetic. He spoke like a preacher from the pulpit. Now he can't even summon the nerve for a casual greeting?

But there's nothing casual about facing the witness of your recent, maybe worst, sins.

(Angels trespass. Oh yes, they do.)

Adam is too tired for a fight, and Michael, fuck him. He's so goddamn beautiful with that face he has no right wearing, his perfect dark hair and blue eyes that plead with him. What right does he have to ask anything of Adam anymore?

"Hello." Adam slumps into one of the swings and looks away from Michael. He would still hate Michael if he had the energy and it didn't turn that shameful ache in his chest. 

What was so attractive about angels anyway? They were ruthless, manipulative embodiments of arrogance. Maybe the will of God wasn't as pure in service as Adam was raised to believe, not by human standards of moral integrity, anyway. Would Adam have the same reaction if Michael didn't look, speak and imitate humans so well? He doesn't know.

Michael sinks into the swing beside him. The angel studies his knees, dragging divots in the woodchip with the toe of his boots. "It's been a long time."

"Yeah." Adam's fingers tighten around the chain of the swing.

He feels the tension like a band tightening between them. He knows Michael fights not to look at him. 

"Are you all right?" 

Adam sighs. "Are we really going to do this?"

"I don't want to fight, Adam. I never wanted to fight you or your brothers."

Adam's jaw grinds at the mention of his half-siblings. It takes a monumental effort not to snap back. "Let's talk about something else."

"The perimeter is secure."

"Any sign of the devil?"

Michael doesn't answer, but there's something heavy and strange about the silence that finally makes Adam look back at the one who wore his skin. He wonders where Michael took the inspiration for this new appearance, without reference in their prison. He looks surprisingly upset.

"There's been no sight nor sound of my brother. I have to assume he survived the fall as we did."

Michael is turning over a screwdriver in his hands. Adam hadn't noticed it before.

"That worries you?" Adam asks quietly.

Michael shakes his head with a sad smile that makes the breath catch in Adam's throat. "Time isn't so linear here, so it's difficult to tell, but a few hours ago the sun dawned on a special day. And we have so few things to celebrate now."

Adam watches, bewildered, as Michael holds out his hand. The screwdriver bursts into a ball of flame: green, gold with hues of pale blue. It arcs and sputters like the progeny of fireworks, precious and shy in the palm of his hand. It's stunning, Adam's eyes already watering from the intensity and simple shock of something so near and beautiful. After so long, it's a painful reminder that there's a universe of wonderful and awesome things, in the true sense of the word, beyond his sandbox that he may never experience or see again. 

But Michael brought this one to him. He blinks back the sting in his eyes and hopes Michael doesn't notice. 

"I know it isn't much," Michael says. "You might not even want to reflect on another year you've survived in a prison built for archangels." 

"It's our anniversary?" Marking the day they were dragged into the Cage isn't really a milestone Adam wants to celebrate. His eyes sting from the white glare at the core of his gift.

Michael's fingers curl around the token. "Today marks twenty-three years since your arrival on Earth."

Adam's heart sinks to his stomach, and his voice seems to follow suit for the little sound that he can manage. "It's my birthday."

"A day that I'm personally grateful for," Michael insists, his smile almost looking real.

 _But you didn't even win,_ Adam almost says. _And now you're stuck with me._ He swallows the thick feeling in his throat and nods at Michael's strange fireball.

"What is it?"

Michael reaches for Adam's hand and slides it to his palm with the greatest care when Adam finally relents. "A light to guide you in dark places. And this is a long, dark hour ahead of us, Adam, I'd wager an eternity."

Adam tests the strange gift in his hands. It bears almost no weight or heat, rolling in his palm like a ticklish sun. "Thanks for your honesty."

"It will protect you when I can't."

The ache in Adam's chest twists cold. His hands lower to his lap. "You're leaving again."

"Yes." Michael is looking hard at his own feet, but something about the hunch in his shoulders gives Adam hope.

"Do you have to? I mean, you just got here. And it's my birthday."

Michael looks him in the eye and Adam's glad they're suspended in time because he forgets to breathe. So, that's what hope looks like. He'd forgotten that, too. "Did I mention," Michael hazards. "It's my birthday as well?"

"... Are you joking?"

"No. Well, by your measure of time and years, it would be my birthday, too."

"You're not joking. We share the same birthday."

"Ask Lucifer when we find him: I don't have a sense of humour."

"Are you sure I'm not your true vessel?"

Michael laughs and Adam smiles at the sound. He closes his hands around the ball of light in his lap, it seems to sputter and purr contentedly in sparks of emerald and azure. It's sort of cute. Maybe he'll name it. 

When Michael's laughter fades, he sighs like a heavy weight has lifted from his shoulders. "I'm glad it was you, Adam."

Adam grins and looks back to the light between his palms.

And, who knows? If Adam is clever maybe he can even convince Michael about the day after that? There are only so many times he can count chips of bark, climb over the playground of his youth and walk the border of this safe zone marked in pine. Michael meant well, but there is no escaping this is a prison within a prison. Adam wants to make the best of it until those bars can be torn open. They can make this tolerable.

He presents his gift to Michael's eyes. "I'm going to name it."

Michael's eyebrow twitches. "It isn't conscious or sentient, Adam. Naming a tool won't endear you to its non-existent affections."

Adam hums and strokes fingers over the golden prickles of heat, smiling when it pushes up under his hand. "Felix. What do you think?"

"Felix." Adam's never heard an angel groan before. He could get used to it.

He lofts his present triumphantly and pretends he doesn't hear Michael's strangled noise of concern when he bounces it from one palm to the other. "Hello, Felix. You belong to me now."

"Yes," Michael sighs, but Adam hears the smile in his resignation. "I suppose he does."


End file.
